


I'm fucking crying, you prick

by everybreatheverymove



Series: It's the Little Things [2]
Category: Veep (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mommy Amy and Daddy Danny, Post Season Six, Pregnant Sex, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: Based on a prompt: "Things you said when I was crying."-In which Amy is nine months pregnant and decides that fucking Dan one last time will induce labour.





	I'm fucking crying, you prick

“Not that I’m against fuckin’ in a coat closet, but there’s a time and a place, Ames.”

She can’t tell if he’s teasing her or being serious, so instead she just grabs ahold of his tie and pulls him down to her height.

His brows raised, his eyes wide, his smirk evident, she grits her teeth, “Shut the fuck up.” She tugs at the knot of his tie then, loosens it until it hangs near open, purposely ignores the smug look he keeps plastered across his face as she grabs his shirt collar, “Do me.”

Letting go of his shirt, Amy backs one step away before spinning on her small heels and resting her hands against the thin shelves of the cleaning unit. There’s a bottle of bleach calling out to her and she’s half-tempted to soak a rag and shove it in his mouth.

“Eager for Egan?” He’s grinning again - that _fucker_ \- and she can practically hear his ego inflating.

With a look over her shoulder, she shoots him a look, “Fuck you.” Reaching back, she tugs at the zipper of her skirt, barely managing to pull it down an inch before he takes over, imposing and lean behind her, swatting her hand away.

Amy whips her head back around when the zipper gives way and she leans her forehead against her forearm when he draws closer, the coolness of his belt flush against her underwear.

There’s nothing attractive - at all, _really_ \- about her underwear these days, but he seems to have developed some kind of creepy fetish for her wearing maternity panties.

(She calls him a pervert for it, and he just laughs it off because he can.) (Because she’s not wrong, and he knows she’ll quite happily take them off for him anyway.) 

They’re actually kind of good at this pregnancy thing. Well, the somehow-managing-to-have-sex part of it, anyway.

“We’ve got like ten minutes before someone comes looking for us.”

“Baby, you’ll be coming long before those ten minutes are up, don’t worry.”

Amy rolls her eyes, pretends she didn’t hear the pet-name she’s told him (repeatedly, _daily_ ) to stop using, “Well, hurry the fuck up then.”

Curling her fingers around the metal shelving, she rests her chin on her forearm, glances down at the clock as Dan continues to mess with his pants. “Jesus, did you forget how to do it?”

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on me, Ames.” His pants slip to his knees, one hand moving to her hip as the other glides up her back to wrap around her neck. Not in a rough way. Not in a gentle way.

“It’s not like we’re trying to get pregnant.” It’s her turn to smile, and she does so proudly, lowering her head when his right hand shifts from her waist to the waistband of her underwear. “Dan, you suck at foreplay and I don’t have time to teach you where to start right now.”

“Fuck off.” He groans, tightens his grip on her neck, thumb tracing her jawline, running over her skin casually.

Her eyes close - that _fucker!_ \- when his lips find her neck (strangely, _softly_ ), fingertips brushing her hair to one side. He’s going to tangle it up one day, he’s promised himself. He’s going to break her, unlace her, fuck up everything straight and sleek about her. And he’s gonna smile about it, and she’s gonna rage fuck him for ruining her perfect hair.

These fucking pregnancy hormones have driving her insane, making her all hot and horny and flushed whenever he’s around. She wonders if this happens to every woman who spends almost every waking minute (give or take some) with the father of the baby she’s carrying.

Or maybe it’s just her. Maybe expectant mothers - Amy’s skin near crawls at _that_ word - don’t spend all day either fighting with, shouting at or angst fucking their baby daddies.

Great. Now she’s all hot and sweating again. She’s half a mind to tell him to back it up, pull his pants up and get the fuck out of the goddamn closet, but she stops herself. They’ve made it this far. And she’s due any day now, so who knows when she’ll next even want to-

  
Wait.

There’s something warm trickling down the inside her skirt then, running down her leg and she can feel Dan pulls his hand from her panties, wrist against her hipbone, fingers spread.

“The fuck?” 

Yeah. Her water broke. _Fuck._

She knew she was bound to drop, and that having sex could induce labour, but ( _fuck!_ ) he hadn’t even pulled his dick out yet. Oh, well, poor Danny.

“What the fuck, Amy?” He frowns, brows knitting as he looks over her shoulder, his eyes cast down her body, over breasts and an overgrown bump, “Are you fuckin’ contracting?”

The blonde can only stare up at him, shoulder broad and neck muscles tense, “I might be. Not yet. I don’t know.”

Your water breaks, and then… what? There’s no pain yet so maybe-

Oh, no. There it is. 

“Jesus Christ, you need to get to a hospital.” He draws his pants up, not even bothering to fasten his belt, and goes to reach for the doorknob then, creating several feet of space between them.

When he’s pulled the door open, he’s whipping his phone out of his pocket, already scrolling down through his list of contacts. “Where did you put the ba-” Dan pauses, cuts himself off when he hears her hiccup - and sniffle - behind him. “Are you crying?”

“No.” Amy shrugs, her face an unreadable picture. She does not do tears, so _what the fuck?_

He figures she’s in pain because that’s kind of a guarantee when you’re in early labour, right? He remembers ( _unfortunately_ ) how Mike had told him all about how Wendy's surrogate had gone into painful labour. Apparently giving birth to those Cheeto-mustach’d little bastards took well over ten hours.

It’s labour pains, obviously. That explains why she looks like someone simultaneously forced a cactus up her ass and squirted lemon juice in her eyes, “Amy.” He warns.

She’s not gonna take ten hours, Dan thinks. She’s on the fucking ball when it comes to this kinda crap.

She’s the Type A to end all others. She’s easily survived on less than an hour of sleep and somehow managed to hold her own, managed to run a semi-successful campaign. She’ll probably just get past the hospital doors, pop the kid out, then start shooting off work-related texts.

Childbirth is gonna be a breeze.

“Fine, I’m fucking crying, you prick.” She pulls her arms tighter around herself, raises her shoulders as she clutches the low of her stomach. If she could physically snap in half, she would. “I think I’m contracting.”

“You think?” His eyes are wide, and he’s got that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face she recognises from that one time he passed out. “For fuck’s sake.” He breathes, runs a hand over his face, searches for his keys, “Sort your skirt out.”

Amy scowls, reaches down to grab the top of her skirt, but her breathing increases and she suddenly has to stop, chest heavy.

“Okay, fine. Look,” Dan groans (not in the way he had earlier, not in a hot way), and he makes his way back over to her to help pull the skirt up and over her ass, tugging on the zipper to close it. “Can you walk?”

“I’m in labour, Dan, I’m not dying.”

If he has a nervous breakdown again, she’s going to kill him.

“You might.”

“Oh, well, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

She’s following him out the door then, only a couple of steps behind him. He waits (for some reason) until she catches up with him. And then his hand is on her back, and she’s never wanted to slap him so badly. _Fuck you, you prick_. “If I die, then you get to raise the little bastard and use him to pick up unsuspecting college freshmen.”

She can see him roll his eyes at that, and she bites her lip to keep herself from crying out. Fuck, that _hurts_. “No, Amy. I wouldn’t like it if you died,”

It almost sounds sweet, decent.

“Because then I’d have to be on diaper duty until I could find an adequate nanny.”

“You mean a fuckable nanny.”

He doesn’t reply, just shoots her a look out of the corner of his eyes, and from her place beside him, she finally takes note of their height difference. Has he always towered over her? Has he always held the power? No. No, fuck _that!_

“Okay, ow!” She finds herself reaching for his arm then - despite herself, _of course_ , because she only ever makes the first move when she needs sex - and she clutches onto him, as though for dear life, as though he’s going to support her.

Goddamnit.

He’s twirling his keys in one hand, and the other is resting over her own. It’s strange, surprisingly reassuring.

She won’t question it… Yet.

When they’re finally at the elevator, he’s texting with one hand, keychain swinging from one finger. He’s either gonna call the hospital or he’s letting Ben know what’s happening. “You’re gonna be fine.”

“Okay.” There are still tear stains on her face, and she’s so close to screaming, breaking, fucking crying out like a baby. Her eyes sting, but she refuses to let any more tears fall. She is not going to be _that_ girl; the one so easily defeated by someone who’s only like twenty-two inches long.

 _Jesus_ , it hurts. There’s another contraction (she guesses), and it’s worse than the last. But she bites her tongue, lets a deep throaty moan escape past closed lips, and she tightens the grip on his arm until her fucking knuckles turn white.

“I mean it.”

Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he _does_ give a shit, for reasons that aren’t completely selfish. Maybe he _does_ give a shit about her well-being, about their child’s safety. She doesn’t really care at this point, though. She’d rather just be given an epidural, squeeze his evil spawn out, and then _finally_ be free to strangle him to death. _Christ_ , she’s gonna castrate him.

“Sure.”


End file.
